THE BEAT GOES ON

Atheist Anti-Fascist Crusade

HAS SATAN INJURED YOUR FAMILY YET?

How do I, nice Catholic boy, exWhite Pantherite, nubile young rock writer cum social deviant, get on these fucking mailing lists, anyway?

Today's offering,' do help me god, is a pamphlet called “Has Satan Injured Your Family Yet?” It looks like a life insurance brochure, and almost got thrown in the trash. 'Til I noticed it came from an outfit called Personal Christianity.

“Satan” is written by C.S. Lovett. It begins:

“‘Something terrible has happened, pastor. Can you come right over?’

“That call sent me to the home of parents I knew well. Their boy had been jailed for possession of marihuana and attacking a young girl. Their consternation was evident, their grief pitiful. (Credibility zero.)

“ ‘We don’t understand this. We’ve led him to Jesus and sent him to Sunday school all these years. You know he’s president of the Youth Group. How could this happen?'

“My heart went out to them. (Mine sank.) I offered comforting words, but they needed something else. My first question rocked (Really?) them, “Did you teach him about Satan?”

“ ‘What do you mean?’

“ ‘Did you teach him how Satan works and what to do about it?'

“ ‘Well, he certainly knows about the devil.’

“ ‘No, not in so many words.’

“ ‘Then I’m afraid what has happened is your fault.’

“ ‘How can yoii say that?’

“ ‘Had you prepared him to deal with the devil as God has instructed, this probably never would have happened.’

“ ‘We’re ashamed to say this, but we don’t know ourselves.' ”

Neither did I. I suppose this is the point. I keep conjuring up Rosemary's figments ( a new disorder?), pointy tailed little quasi-angels, spears and

nooves and yellow, yellow eyes – but I can’t imagine how one deals with the Devil. Especially an imp who preys upon children. “Interesting, theologically, but has difficulty in personality adjustment conduct. ”

C.S. Lovett (he sounds like a latterday, Protestant version of C.S. Lewis of Screwtape Letters fame) has prepared the answer: Dealing with the Devil. Swell. It’s action packed, I bet. And each comes with a FREE anti-satan kit. For $3.95 – or the teacher’s edition for $2.95, but I don’t think you get the anti-satan kit. Presumably, teachers are already equipped. And what's this about “shows you how to get the anti-satan skill in another life and make it work!” Protestant reincarnation? Send 55 Sunday bulletins for FREE anti-Satan package - includes. . .

firing your pastor to the gas chamber.

Dave Marsh

Evel Knievel Bites The Dust

The only thing better than a hero on wheels is a hero on wheels out to break his own neck. In the absence of an Iggy from the Hog Ridin’ Fools, spitting out grunge chants with piston melodies and lyrics by S. Clay Wilson, we turn to the sports pages where the last couple of years have seen the ascendance of a hero so crazed, so legendary, so borderlinepathological that he must rate as the seventh son of a seventh" son of a double-dog dare-devil, none other than

EVEL KNIEVEL!!!!!

who has barnstormed America on his motorcycle, flinging himself through progressively more outrageous stunts and cracking every bone he can. Evel Knievel, who declares to a drooling press that, what the fuck, a man’s only gonna live so long anyway, and what else is it that makes him a man 'less he’s willing to go out, all the way out to the end of the limb. And it might as well be his own limbs he’s teetering on as any others, right? Your time only comes round once in this life, so grab all the gusto you can!

Knievel plays giant arenas packed to the rafters with every conceivable brand of humanity: scraggly Boone's Farmers knee-to-knee with Archie Bunkers and their families and guys with Vitalis domes dating girls with teased platinumblonde hair. And, natch, bikers aplenty.

It costs five bucks to get in, but 10,000 people were as glad to slap them fins down as Evel was to pick up the $25,000 that was his reward for a few seconds of terror and existential nervezap. After all, this man had made some pretty raw touchdowns in his time, busting bones by the bushel in Las Vegas and elsewhere. This was the man who had promised to jump across the Grand Canyon. This was a man who had come close to killing himself so often that it had become perhaps the core of his draw: the night Knievel bites the dust for real will go down in history, and people lucky enough to be there (and plenty who aren’t) will end up telling their grandchildren about it. It will be almost like being in Dallas on November 22, 1963, or happening by the Biograph Theatre just in time to see John Dillinger get drilled.

Just like little children were observed dipping their handkerchiefs. in Dillinger’s blood as it ran down the gutter, people come to see Evel Knievel banking on the chance that this will be his Last Set. The crowd at the Fairgrounds has been getting restless, fidgeting in their seats and pushing up against a high guard fence encircling the center area where "a long thin white ramp arcs down from a ledge high in the eastern wall, running for a few feet along the floor and up on steel supports to end abruptly just to the left of the first of the thirteen shiny new Chevy's Knievel’s going to jump over. At the other end of the row of Chevys is another similai construction, upon which, presumably, Evel will land and roll down in triumph. (The last three cars have a steel sheet over them to break his fall in case he doesn’t quite make it, so he’s not defying death to the precise degree that he could or should – but that doesn’t lessen the drama of the occasion.)

Suddenly a lusty cheer erupts from 10,000 throats: it’s HIM! Lochinvar! And he looks every inch the part. Tall, muscular, assured, hair just long enough to please everybody, he strides to the fore with a smile, clad in armor worthy of Roger Ramjet: a white studded cape which cuts Elvis’, a tight white asbestos jumpsuit and a helmet gleaming under his arm, both suit and helmet bearing All-American stars and stripes in fine military patterns. The design also happens to be the insignia of the HarleyDavidson motorcycle empire – even though the notion of payola is totally out of the question it is true that the motorcycle that Evel rides on this tour is a Harley-Davidson. But that’s only because the best never chooses anything but the best, as so many ads for so many products have told us.

He takes off his cape, the cheers finally subside, and he begins to speak. Knievel is as much entertainer as athlete (or. is it the other way around?). Like Muhammed Ali and TV wrestlers he knows that the two places where sports and showbiz commingle with special success are in braggadocio and expressions of hostility and/or threats against competitors. So he begins to blow his whistle and grind his axe.

“I am Evel Knievel, a legend in my

own time. I have done the most fabulous stunts in history, I have broken bones and spent more time in casts than most any ten men. I’ve always gotten up and done it again, because I know it is what I must do. I feel the strength that is inside me, and I fear nothing. No one ever has or ever will outdo me at my accomplishments, because I cannot be outdone. If anybody thinks he can outdo me, he is welcome to try. But I just hope you got plenty of life insurance, brother, because you’re gonna need it! Now, I have heard much talk recently, about this rider and that rider, shooting off their mouths claiming to be better than Knievel, who has broken the world’s record by jumping over 19 automobiles, and these cheap liars and fakers

come along and try to hitch a ride on my accomplishments! This one says he can jump over 19 cars, and that one says he’s jumped 20! Fine! But too bad nobody’s ever seen these jumps! ‘Oh,’ they say, ‘just me and some of my friends were, around, but we jumped! We broke Evel Knievel’s record, we did!’ Well, if they’re that good, let’s see ’em do it again, in front of people, in front of as many people as are here tonight, in front of cameras that’ll' prove it to the world. But they won’t do that! Because they know they would be shown up! Because no man but Knievel can do what Knievel has done, and is about to do right now. Thank, you.”

The applause is deafening. Yeah, fuck those no good bums ripping off the Champ’s thunder! Let ’em eat out his exhaust pipe! Now, as Knievel mounts his Harley and begins his series of warmup turns around the arena and up and down the ramp, our hearts begin to hammer in earnest and we push against the fence. He whips across the floor, gunning his machine, and then – zzsswhooooosshhh – up the ramp to that tiny precipiete, where a roadie helps him turn it around, and then – ZZZZRRRRRMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!! -DOWN THE RAMP AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT, revving, gathering speed and gravitational fury with each spoke-blur of the wheels ...

. . . only to veer and brody and zip right back up the damn thing again, leaving us all near heart attacks, pumped and half-drained, coitus interruptus. Shit. Nobody counted how many times he did this, but some of us got tired of being baited avert awhile. Anyway, I had a rare experience that must be known to a couple dozen fans at each Evel Knievel exhibition: I yawned and turned away for an instant to light a cigarette, AND THE STUPID FUCKER CHOSE THAT PRECISE INSTANT TO MAKE HIS JUMP!

I missed it.

I did see him careening down the end-runway at a 45° angle, having effected something less than a perfect landing, in fact the very next instant a chilling gasp welled up from 10,000 throats as Evel actually lost control and crashed! Bit the sawdust! Like a droning swarm of candy-stripers, we ran en masse to see to our hero’s wounds. I noticed a small boy of about six bawling uncontrollably, “Don’t die, Evel! Don’t die!” And Evel reached out and patted the distraught youngster on the head, saying, “There, there, son, don’t worry; old Evel’s gonna be all right.”

While all this was going on the annoucer was, of course, milking it even further, with a tense second-by-second report on Evel’s dubious state, finally stepping back as the Man himself was brought, limping and leaning on two roadie-medics, to the microphone, where he delivered a short speech to the effect that he would certainly heal to ride and jump and win again, thanked the good people for coming out to see him, and was carried away. The applause, the cheers, the stomping were equalled at no rock concerts and few sporting events I have ever seen.

But Evel Knievel stands in serious danger of losing his life-or-death grip on America, if he doesn’t learn to Get Down just a mite further. Because as it stands now he’s all clean chrome and gov’t-approved. He’s the Little Richard of motorcycle and stunt shows, and the thickheaded fucker don’t even know it. He could be outrageous, he could be EVIL Knievel, but instead he settles for being Tom Jones on wheels. I mean, when somebody’s got the masses the way Ever does, the least they could do is utilize all that power to somehow contribute to the invisible insurrection of a million minds.

The least they could do is be bad.

Lester Bangs

Dr. Howlin’ Wolf

Now you can call him Dr. Howlin’ Wolf.

While the internationally revered 62 year old bluesman rested in the hospital, his wife was accepting an honorary Doctor of Arts degree from Chicago’s Columbia College on June 8. The Wolf badly wanted to receive it in person

(even promising to get a special shave and haircut), but the strain of his just completed gig in Montreal caused his blood pressure to drop precipitously, forcing a last minute change in plans.

Much later, his wife, a very gracious lady, told me, “The Wolf was very disappointed. He was looking forward to it so much. We were just sick that he couldn’t make it. And of course, my mind wasn’t really there. He was in the hospital having chest pains right behind each other, and I wanted to stay with him, but he just told me to go . . . That's why I couldn’t say anything when they gave the degree to me, but I'm very proud.”

Although Wolf has already suffered two heart attacks, his wife told me that

this hospital trip was merely precautionary: designed to keep, him from having another. She assured me that he is all right, and that it will have no effect on his plans for performing. In fact, by the time you read this, Wolf will be back on his feet.

The idea of paying tribute to Howlin’ Wolf, whose songs have geen made into international favorites by British bands like The Rolling Stones, Yardbirds and Cream, came from a Columbia College student, Denia Lewis. She presented the honorary citation, which read, “Premier man of American Music, great voice of black people and underprivileged folk, you have sung and made songs of hard time blues and mighty joys that cry to ® make the world fair.”

Five other public figures shared similar honors from the small, intensely urban college which specializes in the media, performing and visual arts, and an alternative vision of education. (In fact, in his address to the graduating seniors the school’s President had the balls to say, “Presently, from milktime to mortarboard education’s deadly infection is that it lies . .. ”) Those besides Wolf receiving honorary degrees included: Pauline Kael, film critic and author; Bill Russell, All Star former center for the Boston Celtics; Dr. Quentin Young, champion of cohimunity health programs; Neil Sheehan, the New York Times reporter who led the coverage of the Pentagon Papers; and Newton Minnow, former Chairman of the FCC, who has gotten a lot of miles out of calling TV a vast wasteland about 10 years ago.

During the week -before tfye ceremony, the Wolf growled to me by phone from Montreal. “I never went to school as a boy,”-he allowed, “I didn’t have a chance. My family was poor; so I had to work. I didn’t go to any school until after I was in the army. Then I went to Crane (a high school on Chicago's West Side) for night school – got through the 7th grade. I been intending to get back there.”

But these days the Wolf feels he's had enough of Chicago. “It’s just too big a town,” he said, “too many things happen to me. I don’t feel free like I do in the country. I paid $43,000 for a home here, but the situation has just got to the place now where it's critical.

“I’ve got some land in Alabama, Arkansas, and Mississippi, and I'm lookin’ to try it out. I’ll probably go on down there before next spring. I guess the country is the best place for me because, I was raised up there, you know.”

Wolfs disillusionment extends well beyond understandable disgust with the living situation in Chicago. “As far as I’m concerned,” he said emphatically, “I’m not interested in makin’ any more records. There’s nothin' in it for me. I wouldn't mind makin’ ’em if it were halfway fair. But it ain’t.

“They got a lot of my records selling under different labels all over the country, but I don’t ever see any of that money. It just disappears in the record business.

“Even when I got somethin', some white kids take it and make a fortune from it – and that situation ain’t any better today than it ever was. Like Blood, Sweat .and Tears makin’ a fortune from one of my .songs, but I never see it because the money has to go through my record company. Course, I could sue, but by the time the mouthpiece take his share, I still ain’t got nothin’ left.

Nonetheless, Howlin’ Wolf appreciates the gesture from the students at Columbia College. “I think it’s alright; it’s very nice,” he said in that kind of funny voice a big man uses when he's honestly touched.

But Doctor Howlin’ Wolf?

“Well, I don't know about that,” he chuckled in gravel tones, “I just don't know.” Jack Hafferkamp

Jack Hafferkamp

Are Those Iggy Stooge-Judee Sill Rumors True?

Our favorite all-American boy, James Osterberg aka Iggy Stooge aka Iggy Pop aka Pop, is beginning to make his presence known in England, the base of operations for his comeback thrust. His hair is longer now, we’re told, and he’s given to wearing old hats and leopard-

skin jackets. The following are excerpts from his English press coverage.

*On his problems: “I got a real mansize habit, and then I didn’t want to be onstage anymore ’cause I knew I couldn't do my best under those circumstances. It got to the point where I'd get on stage and then puke. The people didn't care. Their attitude would be, 'I've seen him do so many far out things, now let’s see him kill himself.”

*On recording that first album in New York: “It was an R&B studio, and they thought we were horrid little creatures.”

*On his aspirations: “I’m waiting for the day when I meet someone who's never heard of John Sinclair.”

*On Marc Bolan: “Kinda chipmunky.”

*On his drumming experiences with the Iguanas: “Where I came from I was a legend.”

*On himself: “I’ve always been

lucky, I’ve wanted everything in the world. I’ve wanted it all. I’m as dishonest as the next guy, ya see. I’m greedy, crooked and vain, and I like to profile. Everybody has a shadow and I like to project a big one.”

And it appears that the rumors about him penning a tune for gentle songstress Judee Sill have a basis in truth. Apparently she was on a British television program he happened to be watching, complaining about how she didn't like rock and roll bands because they were all so “young, loud and snotty”. He wrote a song which will immortalize that wisdom, and it will hopefully be available on the next Stooges album, due in late fall from Columbia. It is not yet known whether Mr. Osterberg has approached Ms. Sill to sing counterpoint on the song he wrote for her, but it might certainly be good therapy.